Man By Pond
by phonebox
Summary: Seamus doesn't understand why it takes so long. Slash. Dean/Seamus.


**Title: **Man By Pond

**Pairing: **Dean/Seamus

**Rating: **PG

**Summary: **Seamus doesn't understand why it takes so long.

**Notes: **First crack at this pairing. Written for my LJ sister for her anniversary.

* * *

**Man By Pond**

"Sit still, Seamus," Dean snapped, but without any real venom. His lover was posing, sat leant up against a tree in the garden of their country house, while Dean drew him in charcoal. They had been going for several hours now, and even though the autumn air was cooler than it had been in weeks, Seamus still felt stifled by the afternoon sun.

"I never understand why it has to take so long," Seamus grumbled as he shifted his weight onto his left buttocks, the right was numb from the tree root he was sitting on.

Dean smiled at him over the top of his large sketchpad. "Because, dear heart, I don't want to rush and then ruin it. Perfection takes time, you know." He raised an eyebrow at his sandy-haired lover before turning back to his work.

Seamus snorted. "Ha! Perfection! The day you are satisfied with a piece of your art is the day I turn down a pint of Guinness." He shook his head, smiling wryly and combed his fingers through his hair.

"Seamus!" The sharp tone was enough to make him jolt his hand back to its original position. He scowled at the chuckle this arose from Dean.

Dean relented with a smile. "It won't be much longer, promise." He blew Seamus a mocking kiss before his attention was grabbed once again by his art.

Seamus sighed and ran his eyes appreciatively over his lover. He was sat cross legged on the ground with his pad perched on his knees as he scribbled over it. His aptly dubbed 'art clothes', a simple white shirt and blue jeans that had seen better days, were covered in paint of different types and colours, flecks of dried clay and a new coating of charcoal where he had absently wiped his hands over them. He had a small frown of concentration across his dark brow and his hair, longer now than it had been during their school days, hung loosely around his pronounced cheekbones.

Watching his lover's hands, _always so dirty yet always so warm_, scramble over the white surface of the paper as they raced to complete his newest masterpiece, Seamus thought he looked completely at home. Dean never seemed to pay as much attention to anything else as he did to his art; even Seamus. A different person would have felt rejected, pushed out of their lover's life by this simple truth, but Seamus found it reassuring. To him, it meant that Dean was comfortable enough in their relationship that he felt free to explore other aspects of his life with the vigorous enthusiasm that he had in bed, without worrying that Seamus might be left behind.

Of course they had their disagreements. Seamus remembered the Ministry gala, where he had been given an award for his work in international trade, that Dean had missed because he was so immersed, so absorbed in his art that the time had left him. They had had an awful fight that night. But two days later, Dean had presented Seamus with the picture that had kept him away: it was of Seamus, sitting on the bench on their porch and drinking- Dean always seemed to capture him drinking- as he watched the sun go down over the tops of the trees. They had had amazing sex _that_ night.

"What are you smiling at?" Dean's curious voice interrupted the pleasant direction of his thoughts.

"Pardon?" he asked politely, still not quite paying attention.

"Well you were staring at my crotch and grinning like a loon. I wondered if you'd like to share what's on your mind."

Seamus' head shot up and Dean laughed hysterically as Seamus' cheeks warmed, giving him away.

"I was just thinking about the night a few days after the Ministry gala last year," he said innocently and was delighted when Dean looked down, biting his lip in a way that told Seamus he was embarrassed but also turned on.

"Oh," Dean said thickly. He turned back to his lover. "You do realise that that wasn't last year, right? It was the year before, Seam."

Seamus' mouth formed an O of shock; How time passed when you were happy and in love.

"I guess you don't look at the calendar I bought you for Christmas," Dean's voice held no upset, he was just amused.

"Actually Dean, I think I put it in the bottom drawer of my desk," Seamus replied smoothly.

Dean pulled a face of false horror, his hand clasped dramatically across his chest. "However could you do such a thing?"

"Well by about February, the singing Leprechaun that danced across the page every time I turned it over, sort of lost it's charm, you know?"

Dean snorted and picked up a new piece of charcoal. Seamus groaned but Dean only laughed and shook his head, not even looking up at him.

Seamus had no idea how Dean could be comfortable sitting hunched over like that, but he hadn't moved in several hours, so it couldn't have been as bad as it looked. He watched him for a few moments, before his thoughts began to wander again.

Dean often asked him to model for pictures. The first time he asked, Seamus had bluntly refused. That was until Dean looked up at him from beneath his dark eyelashes and told him that there was something incredibly intense and sensual about drawing something you loved. Seamus had sat down instantly and allowed his lover to manoeuvre him into any position he fancied. Even now, several years later, all Dean had to do was ask and Seamus would commit himself to several hours of boredom. He complained, loudly and often, but at the end of the day, he loved the peace that it gave Dean and the simple joy he himself could derive from watching his lover at work.

When Seamus wasn't available, Dean used volunteers from the art university in London that he tutored part-time at. They were mostly students; they enjoyed the opportunities to watch a professional at work, even from the opposite end of the brush, and frequently became inspired after their time in Dean's presence. Dean only worked at the university because he enjoyed it; he had no real need for the money, as his work often sold for thousands at galleries around the capital and Seamus earned enough to keep them in their home.

He even worked occasionally for their friends. In the past month he had drawn portraits of Harry and Draco in their home and Ron and Hermione with their baby and most of their close friends and relatives received pictures for Christmas or other special occasions.

"Are you done yet, love? My arse is going to fall off soon," Seamus enquired grumpily.

Dean paused in his work, holding it out in front of him and turning his head in different directions as he squinted at it. After a few moments, he drew it back to himself and made a few adjustments, blowing on it lightly to remove the black dust of the coal. Nodding absently to himself, he quickly squiggled his signature in the bottom right-hand corner and then placed the remains of several coal pieces back in the tin he kept them in. Only then did he look up at Seamus, who was frowning at him in confusion.

"I'm done," he said with a smile and he couldn't contain a chuckle when Seamus slumped dramatically into a more comfortable arrangement.

"Thank Merlin. Can I see it?" Seamus turned his bright eyes on his lover who nodded.

Seamus started to get up and move closer but was stopped when Dean held out a hand. "Wait a sec."

Dean pulled out his wand from his jean pocket and muttered a complicated charm. The top page of the sketchbook ripped itself out from the rest of the pad, which flipped itself over to the cover and moved to lie by the tin of charcoal, and hovered in midair. Another spell and the edges of the floating paper turned into an ornate frame of gold and silver leaves.

Dean put his wand away and snatched the picture out of the air, then slowly turned it to face Seamus.

It was, as expected, a portrait of the Irishman sitting against the tree as he just was, but it was so much more beautiful than Seamus had imagined. All of Dean's artwork was spectacular, but in this piece, the figure looking into the natural pond in the garden, seemed to leap off the paper. Despite it being a simple black and white sketch, the shading was exciting and showed a range of light and dark that gave the picture a magical feel. It was striking and beautiful and Seamus was overwhelmingly flattered.

"It's gorgeous, Dean," he choked and was surprised to find himself close to tears.

Dean, sensing his distress, calmly placed the picture down on the grass and crawled on his knees over to Seamus. He leant down over his lover, who was slumped back against the trunk and placed a gentle kiss on his lips. He pulled back after a few seconds and gazed into the blue eyes he adored so much, then his face broke out into a beaming smile.

"Happy anniversary, Seam," he whispered, before claiming those lips again.

THE END


End file.
